


There Are No Heroes in This Story

by paudax



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon Callbacks, Evil Marketers, Found Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Terrorism, Injury, Monologuing, Revenge of the Normies, Shitty Clients, Sibling Bonding, So You Want to be a Hero, Spoilers for FH:Retribution, Terrorism, Totally Normal Human People I Swear, Unreliable Narrator, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27862477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paudax/pseuds/paudax
Summary: I was expecting Mrs. Collins to turn up at our office again. We'd done a solid job translating her sketchy ideas about superhero-inspired doggy outfits into an actual brand, complete with a nice logo, an online store, and a touching little origin story about her three greatest inspirations in life: Marshal Steel, Marshal Steel's washboard abs, and her asthmatic little dog, Spark Pug. What I wasnotexpecting was that she'd show up literally the morning after our launch party, pug in tow, raring to share Steel's Best Kept Secret with us — whether we wanted to hear it or not.OR: Sure, superheroes exist, but you aren't one and your life still sucks.OR, ALTERNATIVELY: Fallen Hero: Rebirth from the eyes of some background characters.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	There Are No Heroes in This Story

**Author's Note:**

> Spoiler warning - this story is set during FH:Rebirth, but it contains pretty big spoilers from FH:Retribution.
> 
> [Tumblr post](https://curieously.tumblr.com/post/636529127192756225/there-are-no-heroes-in-this-story-paudax)

The club's walls are a sick shade of puce that darkens into black where they meet the floor. Rajinder, who never gives up an opportunity to share his wisdom with me, had yelled something about blah blah atmosphere, blah blah illusion, and blah blah intimacy right into my ear literally two minutes after we'd walked in.

My head was still ringing a bit from that.

The whole atmosphere and intimacy shebang would've probably worked better if not for the crowd, pressing up against each other and blocking off half the room from view. The reason they aren't breaking the local fire code and building regulations is because we're in Los Diablos — we don't _do_ 'fire codes and building regulations' here.

I take a sip of my margarita, returning my focus to Rajinder. "Sorry," I shout. "Kinda loud in here. You were saying?"

"Think Collins is happy with the party?" He yells back, over the bass.

"Collins is _right there_ ," I reply. Granted, it wasn't like our client could really hear us, being caught up in the middle of a toast. I would've put money on betting that she couldn't even hear herself. "Save the analysis for tomorrow, you're drunk. And she chose this place, anyway," I add, because he's not going to leave it be otherwise, chronic overthinker that he is.

"Yeah, true," Rajinder shouts, before we lapse into a companionable silence for all of ninety-eight seconds. Then, he opens his mouth again: "Think she'll be back for more?"

"Sure," I shrug, nonchalantly. _Hopefully not_ , I think. 

Job wise, Mrs. Collins is fine — as much as any client can be. But I could do without her checking me out every time she thinks I'm not looking. I have a brain, I'm not stupid, and if she comes back to give us more business I'd rather it be because she liked our work rather than because she liked my ass. She's not our only client, anyway, so it's not like we'll starve if she takes her jobs somewhere else.

From where I'm standing, I can see Mrs. Collins glancing around like she heard my thoughts. But standing in Rajinder's shadow — a major benefit of having him nearby — and with the puce-to-black walls behind me, I don't register as much more than a blur to her eyes. 

Still, she doesn't seem inclined to give up the search, which means it's time for more aggressive measures.

"Time to make nice, Raj," I tell him, giving him a shove before depositing my cocktail on a nearby table. "You're the Account Manager, stop talking with me and go tell Collins what she wants to hear."

He makes a face. Evidently, I wasn't the only one who noticed our client scoping out the room. "You'll owe me, asshole."

"I'll buy you lunch at the nice Poke bowl place tomorrow."

"Deal."

He pushes himself off the wall, his expression going from bored to bright, straightening up as half the crowd turns to look at him. Mrs. Collins notices almost instantly, of course, but by that time I'm already slipping behind him and heading for the door.

The last thing I see when I turn back at the exit is Rajinder standing next to our client, a smile on his face, telling her something about hitting KPIs, getting endorsements from up-and-coming vigilantes, and really, truly making a difference in Los Diablos.

She's hanging on to every word he says like it's a promise.

*

_"Okay. So._

_I've been doing branding, strategy, and brand strategy for RKDN (that's pronounced 'Arcadian', and we're supposedly 'the premier boutique full-service independent marketing agency in Los Diablos' according to my boss, and 'a completely average run-of-the-mill ad shop like the last three I worked in' if you ask me — although you won't catch me saying that while he's in earshot) for the last two years._

_I'd say the majority of our clients are... well, tryhards, to put it frankly. You know what I mean. The people who want to make it, but who haven't made it yet. Who've got something to prove, because they haven't proven shit yet. Who want the very best, but just don't have the money to buy it._

_And so they come to us._

_Don't get me wrong. I'm honestly very fond of them — aside from one or two, anyway. A lot of them are genuinely passionate people who really believe in what they're doing. You don't have to be a mind reader to see that. But just because they know their stuff doesn't mean they know how to_ talk _to people about their stuff, and that's where I come in._

_So here's one thing a lot of people get wrong: that I just make shit up, or that I come up with some evil marketing ploy to get people to buy a product by taking advantage of them._

_Fuck, I wish I could. Do you know how much easier my life would be?_

_Listen, I have this friend, Nicole? Nikky. Right. So Nikky's a freelance designer; we met at my first agency when she was hired to help with a pitch about LDPD scholarships. Which we won, but that's beside the point. Anyway, she tells me a lot of her work these days is under the table shit for villains. Someone's gotta design all those henchmen uniforms, name cards, workplace safety signs, stationery letterheads, email signatures — you know the drill. And I- I may have helped her out a time or two by ghostwriting a couple of villain speeches._

_But back to my story._

_Nikky can design things that are evil and threatening and scary and prey on people's fears because that is what she's hired to do. That is what her clients want, and that is what they're happy to pay her for. My clients, on the other hand, want their egos stroked. They want to feel that people like them, and that people appreciate what they're doing, and that their little businesses really mean something._

_So that's what I do. They come in, nervous and worried that I'm going to laugh at them like everyone else has, and I sit down with them and pull their stories out of their heads._

_I ask them what motivated them to bake karantika, or make highly detailed life-accurate superhero figurines, or plan cross-country road trips. I listen while they tell me about how their grandmother held their hands while teaching them to cook her childhood dishes, or how seeing Sentinel on TV when they were nine changed the way they saw themselves, or how they had the best burger of their life in a dinky-ass, run-down diner in the middle of Detroit._

_And then I tell their stories back to them, the way I'm telling them to you now. I tease out the parts that make them human; the bits which make them feel relatable and real to other people. I get everyone else to see that it's not just about the karantika (which was amazing, mind you, I should take you to Khalil's restaurant someday), but about family and memories and the warmth of your grandmother's smile as she sings you a song in your shared mother tongue._

_Not that we have grandmothers, but you get the gist._

_Look, what I'm saying is that I like getting paid, which only happens if I make my clients happy and successful. And I do that by making sure everyone sees them as decent folk who are trying their best, and appreciates the hard work and effort they've put into building their businesses._

_Anyone who can't relate to that wouldn't be part of the target audience, anyway."_

*

I _was_ expecting Mrs. Collins to turn up at our office again. We'd done a solid job translating her sketchy ideas about superhero-inspired doggy outfits into an actual brand, complete with a nice logo, an online store, and a touching little origin story about her three greatest inspirations in life: Marshal Steel, Marshal Steel's washboard abs, and her asthmatic little dog, Spark Pug.

What I was _not_ expecting was that she'd show up literally the morning after our launch party.

"Eurgh," Rajinder moans when we hear the barking. "Fuck. Are you fucking kidding me? At this hour?"

"Aw, come on," I reply, glancing over my desk at him. He's got his head in his hands. Killer hangover, no surprises why. "It's only, what, half-past nine? Maybe she's just dropping by to say hello."

"Do you seriously think that? Cam, you are my best friend in this place. Look me in the eyes and tell me that you honestly, sincerely, and wholeheartedly believe that Susannah Collins is only here to say hello, deliver breakfast muffins, and leave us the fuck alone."

I debate telling him that, but as he says, I am his best friend in RKDN. If nothing else, Rajinder gets the truth from me if he asks for it.

"Nope," I say, grinning, just as something nudges my leg and snuffles worryingly. "Tough shit. Heya, puppy."

Bending down, I pull Sparky out from under the desk and into my lap before she can start chewing on my jeans. Rajinder, for his part, looks at me with a bitterness he usually reserves for aphids on his tabletop hoya.

"Better hope that little monster doesn't crap on you," Rajinder says, grimacing as he stands up and pulls his suit jacket on. He turns, about to head out to the front office, when something catches his eye. "Is it wearing-"

I look down at Sparky, pat her, and get a faceful of happy pug slobber in return. "Charge's suit? Yeah." 

It's... something, having an electric blue dog about the same size, shape, and weight as a bowling ball snort around in your lap. "Who's a little cutie pie, are you a little cutie pie? You are!"

For a few seconds, Rajinder appears to be on the edge of losing it.

"Poke bowl and a beer," he finally says, grimly. I laugh.

"Charm Collins hard enough that she forgets I exist, and I'll buy you ice cream as well," I say.

Rajinder just turns around and leaves, but I can tell that while he's still pretty grumpy, lunch, beer, and ice cream on my paycheck will probably suffice as motivation to do the job that our boss is ostensibly paying him for.

I watch him go with a vague smile, settling Sparky down. Mrs. Collins once mentioned early on into our working relationship that she'd chosen RKDN because: "I love Spark Pug with all my life, and when she ran to you and I saw how well you both got along, I knew — I just knew that I could trust you; that you're a good person." 

With a good ass, she hadn't added, but one whole wall of our office is made of mirrors and it really wasn't hard to catch her staring.

Rajinder had thought it was hilarious. He's usually the one that gets that kind of attention, being in charge of client relationships and PR stuff. He'd tried to make friends with Sparky, too, but she hadn't taken to him — I've found that Sparky doesn't really take to anyone at all, besides people who always have dog treats on hand.

Continuing to pat Sparky, I reach into my left pocket and pull out a packet of jerky. She perks up at the sight of it, drooling patiently while I shake out a couple of pieces.

But I have to admit that Mrs. Collins' interest in me aside, she's not entirely terrible to deal with. I know that she's the type who'll keep her weirder thoughts to herself while we're in a professional environment, and her dog is a blissfully brainless ball that finds its own farts both wonderful and alarming. For Sparky alone, I don't mind staying on the account.

Over the next hour, I balance my attention between keeping Sparky from gnawing on anyone else, responding to urgent emails, and browsing conspiracy theory blogs. Most of the stuff on them is utter crap, complete nonsense, and total insanity, but now and then I can find surprisingly useful bits of information. Not this time, though — the only mildly readable post is from some self-proclaimed urban investigator who swears that she's found signs of mutated monsters living in the sewers. Unfortunately, I'm just not that into mutants, monsters, or sewers.

Then Rajinder walks back in, and Sparky leaps off my lap with a yelp and charges out the hallway to find her owner.

"So, Raj," I say, stretching out. My legs feel numb. "What's the bad news?"

Rajinder is silent for a while. Then he sighs and tosses a blurry photograph onto my desk. "Did you know Marshal Steel has a dog?"

"What, _really_? I wouldn't have expected that. Doesn't really fit his image."

"I didn't either, but there you go. It's a greyhound, by the way. An ex-racing greyhound, which he adopted very quietly. He only seems to walk it out of costume, and he's never publicly spoken about it or been officially photographed with it. No one's very sure how old the dog is, but it's supposed to be extremely cute."

I look down at the grey streak in the photograph, squinting a little. Now that Rajinder mentions it, it does kind of look like a greyhound in the same way that a potato looks like a pug.

"He's called Spoon," Rajinder informs me, slumping into his chair.

"How the fuck did Collins find this?"

"Superhero stalker sites," he groans. "The thirsty ones. One of the other members has a chihuahua and visits the same dog park. Didn't recognize Steel until they heard him calling after his dog."

"Oh, goddamnit," I say, with feeling. "Tell me — no, let me guess, Collins wants to use Steel's dog as a model, and she wants us to get him for celebrity marketing, and she doesn't realize that telling a hero 'hi, I've been creeping on your private life and want you to pose for me' isn't just breaking like five different privacy laws, but also seriously fucking creepy?" Pausing for breath, I think about it a bit more. "Gonna bet she wants to touch Steel's abs too."

"Well, she didn't say the last part out loud," Rajinder comments dryly. "But there's supposed to be some big superhero gala happening later this month, and word is that Steel will be showing up in person. Collins wants us to get her an invite so she can talk to him one-on-one. She's convinced he'll come around once he meets Spark Pug. Remind me again, when did I become a ticketing agent?"

"Fuck if I know," I reply. "What'd you tell her?"

Rajinder smirks, the first positive expression I've seen him make today. "That I'd check in with you for your expert advice on what course of action we should pursue."

"Oh, thanks!" I yell. "Dick."

"Asshole," Rajinder replies amiably. "Don't forget you still owe me lunch."

*

I've pushed responding to Mrs. Collins onto Monday's task list. She doesn't need a reply immediately, anyway, and I can use the weekend to compile a nice deck that explains why her genius marketing plans are:

a) very illegal;  
b) very unethical; and  
c) very unlikely to work anyway, even if a) and b) somehow did not apply.

Not my problem if she doesn't like what I have to say. I'm not some kind of superhero, I don't get to break the law first and claim it was for the greater good afterward.

On the bright side, it's the last Friday of the month, which means it's time for dinner and drinks with Daniella.

Like pretty much everyone else in my life, I met Daniella through work. Some guy I knew introduced us a couple of years back, and I helped her out on a small job that, quite frankly, didn't pay shit. I barely remember what it was about, now. But we bonded over food and complaining about the people who brought us up, and agreed to continue our regular catchup meetings after everything was over.

I've cleared out the rest of my work for today, anyway, so it's with an easy conscience that I saunter out of the office as soon as it's 6 PM. 

An hour later, I'm pushing open the door of the Black Hole; one of many pretentious little joints catering to the wannabe vigilantes and amateur villains of Los Diablos. Daniella and I try to meet someplace different every time, and this is tonight's spot. I picked it because I'd figured that even if the food was mediocre, the people spotting would more than make up for it.

Luckily for us, the food isn't mediocre.

I grin at Daniella over a mouthful of surprisingly tasty squid ink pasta, and she shrieks. "Ew, Cam! Your teeth are all black."

"Nice, so I match the decor."

"It's gross," Daniella says, delighted. She pushes her plate over. "Here, trade me some."

Obligingly, I plop a forkful of noodles onto her plate in exchange for one of her black sushi rolls. It's not quite as much to my taste as the pasta, but decent enough to be worth a return visit. Although I'll probably find something else to wear next time — we both stick out a little; me in my usual nondescript getup, and Dani in a bright yellow jumpsuit.

Around us are seated a bunch of half-costumed hacks wearing fits so sharp you could cut yourself on them. Most of them are busily working out the right angle to take selfies at, or wondering whether or not Daniella and I are paparazzi in disguise. They haven't seen us around before; are we undercover reporters coming to check them out? Secret admirers, maybe? Fans who picked up on the juicy backstory breadcrumbs they scattered around town?

The answer to all of their questions is a flat no, but figuring it out is their issue, not mine.

"So how's work been?" I ask Daniella, between bites. "Must be pretty nuts right now, yeah? I saw you in the papers." It was just a picture of her standing with her colleagues, but they'd put her name down in the captions: Daniella Hernandez, Research Assistant.

"Oh my god, don't get me started," Daniella starts. "So Mrs. Jones — my uberboss — I told you about her before, right?"

"Pain in the ass to work with, slave to the donors, more interested in acquiring new crap than actually taking care of what you already have?"

"Yup, that's her. So she's just standing around, giving interviews and smiling for the cameras, while I have to run around with my actual bosses doing all the hard work. Last week — just last week — she sent me to San Diego to pick up some urgent paperwork, and then when I got back to LD, do you know what she told me?"

I do, but I humor Daniella anyway. "What?"

"She told me to- Cam! Don't laugh!"

"Sorry," I say, laughing.

"Ugh, whatever. Anyway, she told me that while I was away, one of the old dragons down there had called up about some ancient biographies and a couple of first editions that they simply had to share with us, and that it would be just perfect if we could send someone down to fetch them right away, and do you want to guess who that someone was?"

"Anyone but you?"

"Funny," Daniella says, spearing a sushi roll with a bit more force than is strictly necessary. "Very funny."

"At least it's all going to be wrapped up soon," I tell Daniella. "And then you can take it easy." I like her, she's simple to get along with, never asks me hard questions, and adores cats. She deserves a break if nothing else.

The edges of her lips quirk up. "I mean, yeah. Maybe. You know I've been hoping this could turn into a permanent position — it's not like there's a lot of jobs open in this field."

"If you want me to talk to people, or ask around if anyone needs a researcher..."

Daniella inhales, like she's working herself up to tell me something, but then stops herself. 

We finish the rest of the meal talking about other, easier topics. Like how her girlfriend got a promotion at work and might be able to transfer to her company's Los Diablos branch soon. And how the feral kittens that Daniella brought home are starting to trust her, to the point where one of them even fell asleep on her bed last night. 

I share a bit about Mrs. Collins, Sparky, and Rajinder, drop a couple of anecdotes about my own boss' shenanigans, and throw in a story I stole from a passerby about a piano-playing neighbor to top it off. Daniella likes that one the most, which I expected. It's a funny little incident; warm, human, and with a happy ending.

After dinner, we head to the subway together — not talking, just enjoying the night air.

Just before we're about to enter, Daniella puts a hand on my arm, stopping me in my tracks. "Cam," she says.

I look up at her.

"I. Um. You know how we met? When you gave me a hand with... with my family."

"Anyone could've done that," I shrug, a little uncomfortable. I'm not sure if it shows on my face.

"Yes, but you and Nate were the ones who did," Daniella says in a rush. "I would've probably still been stuck with them now, if not for that. And you helped me get this job, and like, I know I complain a lot about the traveling and the driving and the scanning and the paperwork, but it's not actually all that bad. So when you were offering to ask around for me earlier, I thought- I just wanted you to know that I appreciate everything you've done for me. I don't want you to think that I don't."

"Aw, Dani," I say, because I can't come up with anything else.

"It's just. If this all works out, then I want you to let me pay for dinner too."

I stare at her for a few seconds, a little bewildered. "What, that's all?" A beat. "Sure thing then, next month is on you."

Daniella bursts out laughing. "I'm gonna hold you to that, you asshole," she says. "I really do mean it, though."

"I know you do," I say, because I can tell she does. "You're gonna do great, trust me. Your bosses need you a hell of a lot more than you need them, so you shouldn't have much to worry about. Besides another earthquake, anyway."

She grins at me, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "I trust you. And- you'll come, right? If you can."

I'm about to tell her that it's just not my kind of thing, but something in her expression stops me. "We'll see," I say, a little lamely. "You know how my work can get. But you can always text me if anything interesting happens."

"Okay," Daniella says, a note of relief in her voice. "Just call me if you do drop by, because I can sneak you in through the staff entrance so you don't have to pay or talk to anyone you don't like."

The smile we share before we part ways is as conspiratorial as it is warm, and I feel almost sorry to see her go.

*

_"Anyway, here's the point I've been trying to make: you don't have to work for me, or even with me. I'd prefer you don't, even.  
_

_No, wait, just hear me out first. Okay?_

_Marketing and branding and all of that stuff — it's not for everyone. If it's important to you to have your own voice and stay true to yourself, then don't do it. It's not worth it. I've met way too fucking many kids right out of-_ high school _, I was going to say, what did you think I was going to say?_ High school and college _kids who care about being authentic and real no matter what._

_They don't last long in this industry._

_I'm not saying that marketers lie. It's more like... remember the stories I told you earlier? I sit down with people, capture their voices into a couple of attributes (like 'smart and sarcastic', or 'firm and reliable', or 'young and enthusiastic), and then I come up with something that would be true if_ they _were the ones to say it. It's_ their _words, at the end of the day. Their names are the ones that go on the posters. They're the ones responsible for the impact and the outcomes — not me._

_Do you see what I'm saying?_

_You shouldn't do this just because you think you don't know how to do anything else, either._

_What else can you do instead? Learn, obviously. Look, you found me, you must've picked up a few things along the way. It's pretty common these days to bounce around until you find something that fits; that you can stand working in for long enough to build a life around._

_Work doesn't have to be your passion, either. It shouldn't be, in fact. Use the work you do to pay for your passions._ _You've met Nate. Do you think medicine is his passion? Of_ course _not. He plays bass in a punk rock band on weekends. And if you don't have any passions or goals or aims, then we'll just try to find you some.  
_

_...C'mon. Don't stare at me like that. This isn't a test, you won't fail if you can't find a job. I'm an asshole, I plan on finding a way to make use of you somehow. I want you to feel like you owe me for any help I give you._

_But I_ also _want to get my money's worth out of you, which means that I'm not going to just toss you onto the streets and tell you to have at it. We'll work together, find out what you like, and figure out who you want to be. And we'll come up with something good, trust me._

_We're in Los Diablos, after all._

_What else does this shithole have, if not opportunities?"_

*

Rajinder is worrying over his hoya when I walk into RKDN on Monday morning.

"Hi, Raj," I greet him, blearily. "How's Chelsea?"

"It's only been two days, she's perfectly fine, I'm just being a fussy dad," Rajinder replies. He's reasonably self-aware, I'll give him that. Doesn't make him any less crazy when it comes to his plants.

I'm about to settle down and get to work when Rajinder glances around the office, checking to see if anyone else is in earshot before turning back to me. "Hey, Cam — you free for a minute?"

"...Sure, what's up?"

He jerks his head towards the office pantry. I toss my bag on my chair first, powering on the PC before giving Rajinder a nod. We head there together. It's not the first time I've had to have these kinds of conversations, and it's not going to be the last. I'm already mentally preparing a response when he starts to speak.

"So I should just get right to it, I suppose. I'm, uh..."

"Secretly a supervillain?" I ask, deadpan.

"Going- huh?"

"Raj," I grin. "You should've known you could trust me with something like that. So what's the evil plan, then? Bomb a school? Take the mayor hostage?"

"What, no, wait, shut up, I am trying to be very serious here," he says, failing to do just that. "And you're mocking me."

"I'm your best work friend, of course I'm mocking you," I reply, and then give it a couple of seconds. "Okay, so who hired you?"

"DeWitt & Yang," he says, and then stands there with his mouth open. "Oh, fuck off."

"You're the one who's going to be fucking off, not me," I say. DeWitt & Yang, huh? They're one of the big boys. Got their start in Oregon, and they have offices all over the West Coast now. Most of their work is for big, household brands, and they can afford to pay their account managers a hell of a lot more than anything RKDN can offer. Rajinder will be a good fit there, based on what I've heard about them. "Congrats, man. When do you start?"

"In a couple of months," Rajinder sighs. He's smiling though, which I take as a good sign. "I'm turning in my notice today, but I want to take a break and look for a new apartment — maybe something nice and sunny for my babies."

"Sounds good," I agree. "So what're you telling me for?"

He shuffles a little. "So when I was talking with them, they mentioned that they were also looking for-"

"No," I say, before he can finish.

"What the hell, Cam, I haven't finished."

"You were going to say that they were also looking for someone to do strategy work, and they mentioned liking some of RKDN's latest campaigns, and they also asked if the person in charge of strategy here was looking for some new opportunities, right? And _then_ you promised them that you'd bring it up with me."

He nods. Guilty. "More or less, yeah. How'd you know?"

"In case you haven't noticed, it's literally my job to predict what people are thinking. And it's not the first time I've been asked. Not by D&Y, though," I clarify. "Listen, it's not like I love RKDN and plan to stay here forever, but you know what the people there are like. They're all kind of..."

"Hipsters?"

"I was going to say 'appearance-conscious', actually, but that works too. Can you imagine someone like me there?" I wave a hand at myself. Nondescript. Bland. Lazy. Not really worth a second glance by most people's standards. "They want charismatic, award-winning brand strategists who can win million dollar accounts and wow clients with their presence alone."

Rajinder gives me a slightly puzzled look. "You _are_ a charismatic, award-winning brand strategist who's won million dollar accounts," he says slowly. 

"...Sure, but I don't look like one."

"Point taken," he says, sounding relieved. "Thanks. I'll tell them that — nicely, of course. And I'm sorry about leaving you to deal with Collins."

I chuckled. "Don't worry about it. Oh, speaking of her, though, did you get my email?" I'd done up a deck about the Collins situation and sent it to him last night. It had footnotes. I was very proud of them.

"Yeah," Rajinder says. "I actually forwarded it to her this morning. I think it makes sense, but, well — it's Collins. There's a good chance she's going to appear in the afternoon and demand to go through it with you."

I can't be bothered to hide the grimace that shows on my face. 

"Argh," I say. "Hopefully she brings Sparky along. I may consider forgiving her if she does."

"I _swear_ you're the only person besides Collins that dog likes," Rajinder comments. "Imagine if she managed to toss Spark Pug at Steel. I'd give even odds the pug wins that fight."

The mental image of Sparky vs Steel, duel of the century, has me grinning the whole morning.

But as it turns out, though, Rajinder was wrong.

*

The barking starts right on cue, just as I'm settling in after lunch.

I'm anticipating the sight of Sparky barrelling towards me, but to my surprise, that doesn't happen. What I do pick up on instead is confusion from Mrs. Collins and a sense of general awe from Sparky.

Walking into the front office, I check out the scene. Amy, our Receptionist and HR Manager, is looking at me like she has no idea what's going on. Mrs. Collins is looking at Sparky like she _also_ has no idea what's going on. And Sparky has proudly parked herself in the lap of some scrawny teenager who looks mostly dazed and out of it.

I recognize that look, unfortunately. But I don't recognize the teen.

Amy beckons me over. "Cam?" She whispers. "Collins says she has a meeting with you...?"

"She didn't call to schedule one, I'm allowed to be busy today. Who's the kid?"

"About that... um." Amy's in charge of all our job applicants and interns, and I can see her checking the emails she's got on her computer screen. "She says she's here for a... a job interview? With you? But I couldn't find her name in our system, and I didn't know you were talking to anyone today?"

I was not, but it seems like I'm about to be.

"Not your problem," I tell Amy, watching her sigh in relief and go back to a half-finished game of solitaire. "I'll take care of it, forget you saw anything."

Walking over to Mrs. Collins, Sparky, and the teen, I steady myself. 

"Afternoon, everyone," I say, and Sparky turns around and- oh, great, now _all_ of them look confused.

"Hiya Sparky," I greet, as the pug jumps down to snort at me, bewildered. "Mrs. Collins, I didn't know you were coming down today. Rajinder hasn't come back from lunch yet, though."

She looks a little abashed. "Well, I got his email this morning, and I just thought I'd come by to ask you about some of the points you made. If it wasn't going to be a bother, I mean."

"Oh, no, I'm so sorry," I say, completely unapologetically. "Let me introduce you to my cousin-" I nod at the teen, and our eyes meet. "-Cassie. She just came to LD, I promised to show her around today."

"Your cousin?" Mrs. Collins blinks in surprise. "Oh, so that's why Sparky likes her so much! I knew there was something familiar about you, sweetheart-"

I pull Cassie off the couch and behind me before Mrs. Collins can get all soppy over her. " _So_ , I'm afraid I really won't be able to go through the slides with you today," I continue, blithely. "Why don't you email Rajinder so he can schedule a meeting when all three of us are free?"

Mrs. Collins nods, giving Sparky a pat. "Oh, yes, of course. I'll do that, then. Are you really sure..."

"I'm sure," I say, ushering her gently out the door. "See you some other time!"

I remain there, a smile on my face, waiting until both our client and her dog have removed themselves from the premises. Amy's firmly engrossed in her game, entirely satisfied that whatever's going to come out of this situation, it's not going to be her problem. And Cassie's staring at me, her earlier dazed expression replaced by something much warier. Sharper. 

Younger.

"Nathan told me about you," Cassie says abruptly, too soft for Amy to overhear.

"Nate did?" I blink. "I'm gonna guess he didn't tell you where I was working, though."

She nods, lips pressed together in a thin line.

"Okay. Fuck. _Okay_. So here's what we're going to do," I tell her. "You're going to stay right here and wait while I go grab my stuff and apply for leave for the rest of this week. Don’t touch anything, don’t break anything. And then, we're going to go back to my place, call Nate so he doesn't freak out too badly, and _then_..."

Cassie waits, just like I told her to.

"Then," I say, cheerfully, "we're going to talk."

*

_"You want to know how I met Nate?_

_I tell you my entire life history, let you know about the myriad possibilities and routes to choose from in Los Diablos, invite you to ask questions, and the first thing you want to know about is Nate?_

_Hey, no, I'm not offended. It's actually kind of funny. And it's not that complicated a story, so I suppose I don't mind telling you the short version._

_Here it is: I stalked him for a couple of weeks and then coerced him into helping me out._

_The end. Please clap._

_What, you want the long version? Ask him yourself, Cass._

_If you're not too embarrassed to talk to him after reading his mind, bolting off, and leaving him to panic, anyway. At least I never did_ that _."_

*

Cassie glowers at me from across my dining table. The effect is somewhat diminished by the cat print blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and the almost empty mug of hot cocoa in her hands.

"But why is he helping us _now_?" She asks, undeterred. "What does he get out of it?"

"A sense of pride and accomplishment, maybe? I don't know. You found out about him because you thought he might help with the cuts, right?"

She dips her head slightly; the barest hint of a nod. We don't look down at our arms.

"He asked me shortly after we met how to reach out to more people that were like... me," I explain. "I told him about what kind of services he should advertise, and where. Homeless shelters, anonymous hotlines, those sorts of places. Most of us were raised in the same way; it's not hard to imagine that we'd start searching around for the same kind of help once we got out. And I'm guessing Nate felt pretty open to you, too, right? So little shielding. So easy to tell his intentions, to know that he wouldn't turn you in. Almost like it was on purpose."

"...Yeah."

"It was on purpose," I say, blandly. "I taught him how."

Cassie looks up, her expression a little nauseous. "Does _he_ know?"

"What, that any half-baked Farm-grown telepath walking past him could leech his every thought and emotion without even trying? Of course he does. Nate said," I frown, remembering his words, "that if I couldn't trust what he was saying, I could try trusting what he was thinking. You should be grateful, you know. If not for that, you wouldn't have been able to find out I existed."

"But then _anyone_ could find out-"

"I'm not _that_ careless. I put in a couple of triggers and fail-safes. And I'm not going to tell you what they are, that'd defeat the entire point of having them."

She looks like she doesn't entirely trust me. Too bad. I'm not Nathan, she's just going to have to take my word for it.

For a moment, I feel like Cassie's about to protest, but then she yawns hugely.

"All right," I say, pushing myself up. "I've been talking for like... fuck. Hours. No wonder I'm feeling a sore throat coming on. Time for bed. The rest of your questions can wait for tomorrow. You take the bed, I'll use the futon. No arguments; this is my apartment so I get the last word."

"M'kay," she mumbles. Too tired to argue for now, most likely.

We take turns getting ready for bed. I get Cassie settled in first, and switch off the lights just as she calls out: "Cam?"

"Yeah?"

"How many of us are out here?"

"Honestly? I don't know," I say, because it's the truth. "More than you think. Less than you hope."

She doesn't reply, but I hear a rustle in the darkness as she turns over and pulls the comforter over her head.

I lean against the doorway, waiting until I hear the sound of her breath slow down, and feel the shape of her thoughts grow a little less sharp as she drops into sleep.

"Rest well, Cassie," I whisper, before I turn away.

*

"So... tell me about Spark Pug."

"Aw, Sparky's a good girl. The only difference between her and most dogs is that they radiate with happiness, and she explodes with stupidity. Took me a good while to get used to it. I think one of my colleagues still has the photos from the first time I met her on his handphone, that dick." Finally locating the cup noodles I was looking for, I pull them out of the cupboard and gesture to Cassie. "Get over here, I'm showing you how to make instant noodles today."

She inches into the kitchen, casting a suspicious glance over the five different packets lying neatly on the counter. I plonk the cup next to them.

"I can follow the instructions," Cassie says. "It's my body that's ten years old, not my mind."

The unspoken _as you should know_ hangs in the air between us.

"All right then," I say, charitably, and toss one of the packets to her. "Go make this one."

She catches the noodles easily, turns it over, and scrunches her eyebrows. "It's in Korean."

"So?"

"I don't know Korean."

"Oh, didn't the Farm teach you that?" I joke, and Cassie scowls before throwing the noodles back. "Hey, watch it, this cost me three bucks."

She looks askance at me like she's wondering how I can joke about the Farm, of all things. Or confused about how a packet of instant noodles can cost three bucks. Or maybe she just thinks I'm a jerk. I'm leaning towards the last one, myself.

Pulling the packet open, I dump the noodles in a half-filled pot and light up the stove. "Right then. Now, the first thing you should know about instant noodles," I tell her, "is that you don't really need to read the instructions to make them."

Cassie draws nearer to me and looks on as I cook up the noodles, some leftover vegetables, and a fried egg. I don't pay attention to how she's noting down each action I perform, counting off the seconds in her head for how long it takes me to do every single task. I don't notice how she focuses on the gestures I make, the angles of my hands, and the tone of my voice as I talk her through the steps.

I don't need to, because I did the same thing when I was in her shoes.

I pick out another packet for her after I'm done, and talk her through an attempt. I point out the places where people normally make mistakes and tell her about the little things they change on their own, that shows personality. Individuality. Like adding only half the seasoning because they're worried about MSG, or crushing the noodles before cooking them, purely because it's fun.

"...Leaving the noodles in for too long because some asshole wouldn't stop distracting you, that's another one," I add, and Cassie's eyes widen as she spins around and hastily turns off the burner. I nudge her away, gently, and pour out the noodles into a bowl waiting by the side. "Okay, this is mine, take the other bowl and go outside."

We find out over lunch that Cassie has a much higher tolerance for spiciness than I do, which seems patently unfair considering how we're obviously made from similar genetic stock. In the background, the TV is blaring something about a dramatic confrontation between some heroes and the supervillain gang of the week.

I glance up in between bites to see Cassie watching the news as intently as she was watching me earlier. "Something on your mind?" I prompt.

"Could I do that?" She asks.

"What, rob a bank? Don't even fucking think about it."

"No, not that," Cassie says, testily. "The other group, the Rangers-"

"Don't bother thinking about that either," I interrupt. "No superheroing for you. Or sidekicking, vigilanting, or villaining, for that matter."

"Why not?" Cassie asks, a note of petulance in her voice that makes her sound every bit of her ten years. "I know how to fight."

"I _know_ you know how to fight," I say. "But do you know how to maintain a family-friendly public image? Talk down a crowd from rioting over a murder? Handle a press conference that wants to tear you apart? Talk to the parents of the people you weren't able to save?"

"I could learn to!"

"You shouldn't have to!" I snap back, a bit harsher than I intended it to sound. "Listen to me, those are some of the worst jobs possible for... people like us. For one, the Farm's got their eyes on every piece of public media looking for anyone that remotely matches our physical characteristics. You can manipulate how people remember you, but not what the cameras record. And don't forget, they trained us. They know how we move, how we fight. It's not that easy to change up your style. It takes time — it takes years."

I pause, take a sip of milk, and then raise a hand before Cassie can speak. "I haven't even got started. Look, did you get any memories of what fans are like? Or what they can do? Because trust me, you aren't the only person who likes watching heroes do their thing, and I've seen fans identify people out of costume based on their voice alone. Track them down to their homes, talk to their families — and here's the thing, Cass: you can't fight the public. Not when they haven't done anything worse than staring. So they'll list every single detail they've seen of you on their forums, share it with all their fellow fans, and the Farm won't even have to do a thing to track you down.

"And even if you did figure your way around all that, would you even know how to break into the business? How to find a bulletproof suit that doesn't fall apart in the first real firefight you get into? Where to contact people who'll patch you up after you get hurt and not tell a soul? How to commission reliable forgers for the identity cards and paperwork you'll need to have on hand? What you'll say when someone asks you about where you came from, or wants to know your origin story?"

I fall silent, finally. Cassie's silent too, but she's got a look on her face that suggests she's thinking a bit too hard about something I said.

"... _You_ obviously know all about these things, though, don't you?" She points out, finally. "Enough to tell me about them. And that means you've looked into them before."

 _Fuck_ , I think. Cassie might be more perceptive than I thought.

"So- you could teach me," she continues, almost hesitantly. "Couldn't you? And Nathan could help. You trust him."

"You do _not_ get to use Nate as your on-call paramedic and compromise this whole operation," I snap before Cassie can come up with any more smart ideas. "I got to him first, I won't let you, and he wouldn't agree anyway. As for the rest of the stuff — just think about it, Cass. I've been on the outside for... what, must be close to a decade, now? You're not wrong. I've had the time to look into all of this. And as you can see, I've concluded that it just isn't worth the risk. Do you think I'd be slogging away at a 9-to-5 job when I could be smiling for the cameras and saving lives on TV if it was?"

"You just _said_ it was a lot more than smiling and saving lives on TV," Cassie complains, but she seems to get my point. For now. She's clearly not very enthusiastic about it, though.

We fall back into silence once more as the news changes to something about a couple of heroes who were spotted attending a local art exhibition out of costume. Good for them, I think. I've never really cared much for art or heroes, so I don't pay it much mind. 

Although, speaking of exhibitions and galleries... 

"Ever been to one of those before?" I ask, nodding towards the screen.

Cassie blinks, then shakes her head slowly. "They didn't let- I haven't gone out much," she says.

We're going to have to work on how she talks about her past, but there's no rush there. 

"How about this, then?" I suggest, leaning back. "I've another friend in Los Diablos — her name's Daniella. Last I heard from her, she's been busy putting together some big show with one of the local museums. I think I could get her to sneak you in if I ask nicely. You might enjoy it; it's all about local heroes and stuff."

"I thought you didn't _want_ me to be a hero?" Cassie questions, skeptically.

"Well, no, but that doesn't mean you can't learn about them," I point out. "You might end up working with them in the future. Or working _for_ them, for that matter. It's like a play, you know? You've got the actors up on stage, but behind them you've got the director, the stagehands, the set designers, the light and sound guys, front of house, costume and makeup, marketing... it's a big industry here in Los Diablos, heroing. And not all that different from acting, surprisingly. Or unsurprisingly, depending on how you want to see it."

"Have _you_ worked with heroes before?"

I cough. "Not really. I've run into vigilantes a couple of times — hard not to, there's a lot of them about. Better to ask Dani about that sort of thing. She did her Masters thesis on hero memorabilia; even interviewed a couple of retired ones for it. You'd like her, I think."

"Is she like us?"

I debate what to say, or rather, how much to say. It's not exactly my place to share Daniella's backstory, but if it gets Cassie out of the house for a night... 

" _Sort_ of," I hedge. "Not exactly. She had some issues with her family, and Nate and I helped her out a bit."

"Like how he helped me out?"

"More or less." It's as close as I care to get, in any case. "Just have a think about it."

Cassie hums an acknowledgment, before finishing up what's left of her noodles and pushing the bowl aside. I don't bother pressing her for an answer, not when she's clearly thinking it over to herself, weighing the pros and cons. Making her own decisions.

Finally, she speaks up: "If I go-"

I wait for her to continue.

"If I do go, I don't know... how I should be," she manages, and then stops.

"What, is that all?" I ask, and get rewarded with a scornful glare. She's getting a bit too good at those faces. "I told you, I'm not going to just throw you into things without any help. Here's the story — you're my cousin from out of town, and it's your first time in Los Diablos. I promised to show you around the city. Now I've got some urgent, last-minute work I have to finish, so I'm going to ask one of my colleagues who owes me a favor to take you to the exhibition. You won't need to worry about tickets, because Dani will let you both in through the staff entrance." 

I let my words sink in. See her processing it. The mission. The person. The goal.

Tucking her legs up onto her chair, Cassie wraps her arms around them, rocking back and forth a little. "But you're not going to come," she states. It isn't a question.

"I'm not going to be available forever, Cass," I say, attempting to sound comforting. "You'll be fine, though. Most people who go to these things aren't there to look at others; they want people to look at them. Trust me, no one's going to notice you. You'll just be another random face in the crowd. The only person you have to act as is yourself — new to the city, a little awkward, likes heroes, wants to learn more about them. Easy."

She bites her bottom lip. "Easy for _you_ to say, sure."

"Who taught you how to be sarcastic?" I ask. "I'm not sending you alone, anyway. Just hide behind Raj if you feel stressed. I do that a lot, he's used to it. And if it helps, I've heard the Rangers themselves will be making an appearance. No one's going to try anything stupid with them there — and if they did, well, you saw them fight on TV, right? They can take care of anything."

"Raj is..."

"Rajinder. My colleague. He's all right, he doesn't really care about people, but he's good at handling them. Make like you don't know something, and you can bet he'll be thrilled to have the opportunity to tell you all about it. You should get him to teach you about reading a crowd; he might honestly be better than me at that." And Rajinder doesn't even have the benefit of telepathy, just years of Toastmasters, Debate Club, and Amateur Stand-up Comedy Nights.

Cassie doesn't say anything to that, so I decide to let her have some time alone to consider it. After giving her a friendly pat on her shoulder, I grab our bowls, and head for the kitchen to clean up.

When I come back out, Cassie's still curled up. But she looks up at me, stills herself, and draws in a shuddery little breath.

I hold mine.

"I thought about it," she says finally. Firmly. "I'll go."

*

The opening night of the exhibition does not find me doing any urgent or last-minute work. It's not that I didn't have any; it's just that I just finished it well ahead of time like a responsible human being would.

So instead of working, I've chosen to break into Nathan's apartment, settle myself on his couch, and take a nap.

About half an hour later, someone screams, drops all their groceries on the floor and startles me awake.

"God damn, son of a bitch — Cam!"

I open my eyes and look over at Nathan. The hallway light is on, casting him in its spotlight. Nathan doesn't look back at me, though, because he's crouching over five apples, a bunch of bananas, a carton of milk, a bag of frozen peas, a pack of Oreos, a loaf of challah, and a tub of cream cheese like a gangly vegetarian spider.

"Hi, Nathan," I say.

"Fuck out of here, you scared the shit out of me," he growls, picking up his food.

"That's odd, I don't smell feces."

Nathan looks up, then, and tosses the apple he was holding at my head. 

I catch it. 

"Quit it, smartass," he says. "You're a ReGene, not a robot. I know you understand metaphors."

"That's actually more of an idiom than a metaphor," I reply.

"Nnngh," Nathan groans. He gets to his feet, groceries all collected, then frowns down at me. "Do you ever get tired of nitpicking?"

"No."

Nathan's silent for a couple of seconds. "You knew that was rhetorical," he states.

"I did," I admit, before taking a bite out of the apple. Honeycrisp. It's delicious.

"Okay," Nathan says. He takes a deep breath. "Right. I'm sorry, I forgot you were an asshole."

I flash him a quick smile. "I forgive you."

Nathan's eyes narrow, and I can see him visibly struggle between Being the Bigger Person, or committing some non-fatal strangulation on my person. 

"Stay on the couch," he says, finally. "Do not mess with anything. Do not break anything. Please."

I shrug. He takes it as agreement and then stomps towards the kitchen.

Staying on the couch as Nathan told me to, I let my head drop back and shut my eyes. I can feel him behind me, dropping the groceries on the counter, opening and closing shelves, thinking about what he can make for us. Noticing that he's running out of peanut butter and granola. Debating whether he should make me the shitty backup coffee because I scared him-

"I want the nice coffee!" I yell, eyes still closed. "I know you haven't run out!"

There's a faint choking noise from the kitchen, followed by a wave of extremely disgruntled acquiescence.

I'm left waiting for another five minutes and forty-eight seconds before Nathan comes back with the challah, some hummus, and two mugs of coffee, one of which he passes to me.

I take a cautious sip and determine that it is, in fact, the nice coffee.

"I wasn't _really_ going to make you the crappy coffee," Nathan grumbles, taking a seat next to me. "I was only considering it." 

_But you'd fucking deserve it, you little shit_ , he thinks, very pointedly.

"I know," I reply, curling my legs up underneath me. I don't tell him what it's a reply to.

We don't speak for the next fifteen minutes or so, working our way through the snacks together. I let Nathan's thoughts fill the space, updating myself on the petty everyday goings-on in his life.

From the weird are-they-or-aren't-they thing between his band's vocalist and drummer, to a patient that presented some odd, possibly Boost-related symptoms, to the upcoming release of a new game in the Smash Siblings franchise, to whether I'm still subsisting on energy drinks and instant food...

"I only had instant noodles once in the last week," I point out. "And that was when I was teaching Cassie how to make them."

"What- argh!" Nathan yelps. You'd think he'd be used to me doing that by now. "Right, yeah. Speaking of that, how is she?"

"Teenage," I say. "Exhausting."

"Well, you know teens," Nathan sympathizes. "I'd offer to host her here, but... she didn't seem very keen on it when we last spoke. If she changes her mind, you can always send her over."

I grunt a vague acknowledgment.

"What about you, though, how are _you_ feeling?" he asks. He sounds concerned, for some reason.

"Old," I say. "Exhausted."

Nathan snickers. I very graciously decide not to hit him. "What's so tiring? Being human?"

" _Acting_ human," I correct. Finishing off the last of my coffee, I place the mug on the table in front of me. "Cassie was watching the news the other day," I tell Nathan, flatly. "Guess what."

"What?"

"She asked if she could be a hero."

Nathan's eyes widen a little before he claps me on the shoulder and starts to laugh. "Oh no, _no_ , that- that's rich," he says, looking earnestly at me. "What'd you tell her?"

"Told her it was a stupid idea and that she had no clue what she was talking about," I say. I don't meet his eyes.

Even if I wasn't a telepath, and even if Nathan wasn't deliberately going unshielded around me, I'm pretty sure I would've been able to pick up on the waves of sanctimonious justification he's radiating. "Let me guess... no superheroing, sidekicking, vigilanting, or villaining allowed?"

"You think you're so smart," I grumble, in lieu of a proper comeback. "It seemed to work on her, anyway. Who knows if she believed me."

He smiles at me. It's distressingly genuine. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't there another ReGene who had their heart set on going into the hero business at one point? I wonder what happened to them."

I shove him off, none too gently. "Some washed-up punk who couldn't hack it as a vigilante decided to talk me out of it," I respond.

"Hey!" Nathan protests. "I am a respected member of the Los Diablos medical community, one of the pre-eminent experts on hero related traumatic-"

"Wait, shut up, I just remembered," I start suddenly, cutting him off. "Daniella's exhibition opens tonight; I meant to watch it with you. Where's the remote?"

Shutting up, Nathan begins to hunt around for his remote. I join him in the search, and twenty-eight seconds later, we find it hidden between two of his couch's cushions. I grab it, turning on the TV and changing to the news. There, a beaming reporter stands proudly in front of a row of mannequins posing very heroically. We've caught her in the middle of an explanation about the long and storied history of the Heroic Heritage Museum.

"This is it. I got one of my colleagues to take Cassie," I explain, sitting back down. "Thought it'd be good for her to see what it's like when-"

*

Everything goes to hell.

*

"Unfortunately due to temporary service difficulties, we are unable to connect your call at this time. Please try again later."

"Unfortunately due to temporary service difficulties, we are unable to connect your call at this time. Please try again later."

"Unfortunately due to temporary service difficulties, we are unable to connect your call at this time. Please try again later."

"Unfortunately due to temporary service difficulties, we are unable to connect your call —"

*

Someone's crying. Is it me?

*

_You have no new messages._

I drag the screen down. Wait for it to reload.

_You have no new messages._

*

"Cam. Cam, we're here. I have to go now."

"Don't move."

"They're calling me, I-"

"Five seconds. Please."

*

 _A mother, visiting the exhibition with her daughter. They lost sight of each other in the rush. She's tried asking for help, but no one has time. She's not injured, so she isn't a priority. She doesn't know where Amelia is, and no one will tell her. No one can tell her. She screams at_ -

Four.

_A nurse, who can't get to where she needs to be because someone is shouting in her face. She wants to scream back. Can't everyone see what's going on? Can't people tell that there are too many of them? Too many to triage, too many to treat, too many who are hurt, who she can't get off her mind, and it's-_

Three.

_A series of injuries, of wounds, of things that most people will live through, at least. Barely any faces, but you don't need them. Just the impressions. Of a man who's staring at what's left of his arm in shock. Of a lady who's sobbing, distraught, over not being able to go home to her dog. Of a journalist, already pivoting to a new headline. Of-_

Two.

 _A man who'd call you a friend, who can't reach you, who doesn't know what to do for the first time in his life, who thinks you're going to hate him. Sitting with a woman who feels eerily calm, more concerned about whether she'll still have a job after this than anything else. Who's thinking that it's really about time the both of you showed up, isn't it? Watching cautiously over-_

One.

_An intelligence. Something that observes how everyone else is acting. Notes the panic in their eyes, how their lips part in confusion, how their shoulders tense. Watches them stiffen and stare at the walls. Holds itself separate in a little corner of its own mind. Lets its body react and respond to the fear in the air as if it were its own._ _Feels you brush past and blinks, startled, remembering that she's supposed to be a person and she forgot and she failed but she doesn't know where she is and what's going on and did the Farm do this was that you, Cam, Cam, where are you, Cam-_

*

"Found her," I gasp. "Okay. Go."

*

It takes exactly three minutes and twenty-two seconds to reach the lobby where Cassie is. I don't know if I could have been faster; only that nothing could've been fast enough.

Rajinder's saying something, but I don't hear him. Can't hear him. But I can at least sense that he's not hurt — not physically, anyway. 

Then Daniella's holding him back, even as she looks quizzically at me.

"Nathan brought me here," I answer. 

Daniella nods, relieved, then glances at the girl sitting hunched over with her hands in her lap next to her. Who hasn't moved — not just from that spot, but moved at all — since sitting down. Then she looks at me again, and at Rajinder, who's fallen silent. A moment passes before she makes a decision and pulls him aside, taking him with her down a hallway. Away from us.

I wish I could feel more grateful.

Instead, I step forward, then kneel in front of Cassie. I let my hands rest on hers.

"Cassie," I say, out loud. "Can you hear me?"

I _feel_ her respond, first. The slightest shake in her hands, and her eyes focusing on me as she draws herself back out, forces herself to be there. To listen to me, in front of her, and shut out everything (everyone) else that's screaming for attention.

 _I came for you_ , I tell her, and then she's getting up, she — stumbles onto me, falling as her legs cramp in pain, collapsing into my arms. I let myself get knocked back, let Cassie pull herself close, let her throw her hands around my neck, and bury her face into my shoulder. 

I don't think about how I failed her, or how I should have been there, or how I shouldn't have let her go. I don't think about any of that at all.

Instead, I let myself remember the recording room at RKDN. The soft, dimpled foam on its walls, and the way every sound made sinks into them. I recall every single background track I've listened to, the murmuring voices and indistinct, meaningless, endless chatter. I think about sitting by the seaside for hours, and how the crashing of the waves on the shore covered over the city's noise. 

And then I let those thoughts settle over the both of us like snow blanketing the ground; not cutting off the world entirely, but softening it, instead. Mixing our own emotions into the crowd's, covering our presence with theirs.

Making it possible to hear ourselves again.

I only realize that my eyes are closed when I feel Cassie let go and pull herself back. Opening them, I look at her, and notice that her hands are still shaking.

She clenches them into fists.

"What's wrong?" I ask. "Besides the- the everything that happened."

Cassie stares at me, some emotion I can't identify in her eyes.

"Cam," she says, very softly and very calmly. "It _is_ you, right?"

Wordlessly, I nod. She reaches out, putting a hand on my face. I think about news on the television, about a pot that almost boiled over, and about being three minutes and twenty-two seconds too late. And I sense — rather than see — Cassie nod to herself. 

"Someone was looking at us just now," she tells me. "While you were shielding us. Only for a few seconds, when they came out of the room behind you. I hid my face because I didn't want them to see me, so I couldn't tell you what they looked like.

"But, Cam," Cassie continues, and does not scream. "Cam — they felt _just like you_."

*

The hospital is in chaos.

Or is it turmoil, perhaps?

You can smell fear and uncertainty and blood mixing in the air.

Looking around, you see victims everywhere; their dusty, shaken faces blending into each other. Indistinct, and almost — but not quite — impersonal.

What you think of them is up to you. But one thing is true:

Right now, you are glad that you are not a telepath.

*

Very carefully, I pull myself to my feet and reach out a hand to Cassie. She accepts it, after a second, and lets me draw her closer.

"Show me," I tell her, and Cassie —

_Recalls what it's like to hold yourself apart from everyone else, to be someone likable but not too personal, friendly but not too encouraging, witty but not too attention-grabbing. To let people remember your traits before they recall your thoughts, and to dedicate yourself for half a lifetime to trying to prove that you deserve to exist in some way or another._

(no that isn't her)

_To look at the Rangers in fear-love-envy-desire and see what they had and want some part of it, some sense of the camaraderie, even if it was only for the cameras. And wouldn't that be the safest of all? To be able to play at relationships without personally committing yourself, not because you don't want to but because you can't ever risk any of that becoming real._

(that isn't what she wants to be)

 _Knows what it feels like to force yourself to remember every day that you are not the same as everyone else around you, and that you can never be, and that even if someone does accept you, society never will. Knows the sensation of running your fingers over new scars made over old ones, the scars that you prefer because at least_ you _made them. Knows that anyone who looks up to you is looking up to a lie that you constructed for their sake._

(is that all it was)

_Smells fear and uncertainty and blood and looks past the harrowed faces of tonight's victims, their victims, and doesn't spare a thought for them because the only ones here that matter in this whole place are-_

"Cassie," I say, giving her shoulders a shake. "Cassie!"

But she can't hear me.

*

_Okay, so._

_This is... not the way I wanted to do this. Can you understand what I'm saying? Nod if you can. Just nod. You don't have to say anything out loud._

_Good. You're here. I got you. I’ve got you now. And I'm going to need you to listen to me one last time._

_Here's your story:_

_You're not special, Cassie. You're not a superweapon that can take down a crowd, or a genius who can bring down a company. Not alone, anyway. You grew up, isolated and alone, believing that you were somehow different from everyone else. That's what the people who raised you told you, anyway. They said they knew you best, and they made you think that you had to follow everything they said, or you'd be lost and broken and worthless._

_And you know what? They were wrong._

_But you figured that out by yourself, didn't you? You got to know how people thought, and how they felt, and you realized that you thought and felt the same things, in the same ways. Your feelings and your thoughts and your emotions were common and petty and mundane. You're every bit a person in the same ways that the people who brought us up are, and so are all our siblings, and I know it tears you apart that you can't do anything for them yet._

_But you're going to. Do you hear me? You're going to go to Sacramento, where Nathan's got family, and they're going to adore you. They're also going to think you're too skinny and try to feed you at every possible opportunity because they're annoying like that. You'll stay with them, meet some of the other kids — maybe even a couple of our brothers or sisters; I know of at least three hiding out there._

_And you'll study hard and get into college, and you'll make friends and stay out of trouble, and you'll curse at your professors while looking into ways to change how humans think and feel. Art? Politics? Law? Marketing? Journalism? I don't know, that's up to you. You'll grow up, walk your own path, and show everyone that you don't have to be a hero to be super, and don't need to be super to be a hero._

_And, listen closely now, this is the important part._

_This is an order._

_Cassie, you won't think about me at all._

*

Nathan finds me around three hours later sitting on a rare unoccupied bench I managed to find down a corridor. Cassie's lying down, asleep, her head in my lap.

I don't know how many minutes it's been.

I'd told Rajinder to fuck off home a while ago, and said that I'd get in touch with him later. He'd seemed to appreciate that, but I hadn't really been able to tell. Daniella had gone off with one of her bosses — Shaniqua Jones, was that her name? Or Shannon? Something like that — to address the media's questions. I'd managed to come up with a few suggestions, but wasn't able to do more for them. I'd apologized about it, which had shaken Daniella more than the attack had.

Nathan, for his part, looks about as tired as I feel. All things considered, that's pretty understandable.

"I want to send her to Sacramento this weekend," I say, because someone has to start. "Are you going to be here overnight?"

Nathan grunts vaguely, which means _yes, unfortunately_. Then, he sits down on the floor, next to me, and raises a hand. 

I hold it.

 _Is she at least going to remember you?_ He asks.

 _Depends on how her mind interprets the suggestion_ , I respond. _You know that._

Nathan sighs. _You can be_ such _an asshole to yourself,_ _you know that?_

I yank my hand away. "If you're going to waste my energy insulting-"

"No, hey-" Nathan scrambles to grab it back. _I'll drive her up. Should be able to, unless whoever's responsible for tonight is planning on a repeat performance._

_I doubt it._

_...You overheard something?_

_Not me. Her._ I pause to think. _Can you get me tonight's security feed of the west lobby?_

_I'm not sure- not right now, anyway, LDPD and the Rangers will be all over it. But in a couple of weeks time, maybe._

_Okay._

For a while, we sit there, keeping our thoughts in our own heads. I'm just about to let go when Nathan squeezes my hand.

_I meant to say earlier. Some kid just emailed me — his mom's a mad scientist. Wants to make him into a robot._

_Is it urgent?_

_It_ sounded _urgent. He doesn't want heroes to get their hands on his mom, but... not so keen on the robot deal either. Asked if someone could fish him out from the lab this weekend. Gave me the address of an uncle he thinks he can stay with.  
_

_And you'll be driving to Sacramento._

A nod.

I don't say anything, wondering how I'm going to manage that. Remembering the other labs that we've conned, lied, and broken our way into. The cults that we've bullshitted our way past, and the kids we've dragged out of them. And the others who found us on their own, and the ones who trusted me because we shared the same tattoos, and the ones who got left behind after someone else saved the day...

None of them are superheroes. If I don't mess up, none of them will ever have to be.

Nathan nudges me. "Something on your mind?"

"Just thinking," I say, finally detaching my hand from his. I look down at Cassie, and consider the life she's going to lead. And then, I consider the lives of everyone _else_ that I've helped out over the years, and what they're doing now. The knowledge they've gained. The power they can draw on. The people they can influence. The difference they can make. 

The debt they owe me.

"What about?" Nathan asks. He doesn't like the look in my eyes.

"Making a few calls," I say, brushing him off. "Catching up with some folks."

It doesn't really matter if they don't agree with me at first. I can always change their minds later, one way or another.

I suppose that's another thing I'll have to think about from now on; how to get the most use out of everyone. Among so many other things.

Still, that question can wait for another day. 

After all, I've got their futures in the palms of my hands. 

And it's time to pull some strings.

**Author's Note:**

> The main basis of this story is mostly: 
> 
> a) Sidestep is not the only ReGene to have escaped  
> b) A lot of the ReGenes are made with similar genetic stock or have similar background experiences  
> c) So some sort of clone-ish situation is entirely possible  
> d) Heroes in FH are more like... WWE Superstars than the DC/Marvel type
> 
> And mostly I just really wanted a 'what if Sidestep did NOT charge (ha ha) into being a hero and just stayed anonymous forever and used telepathy for like, A MUNDANE STUPID JOB, but still remained a Manipulative Shit with An Agenda about the whole thing' kind of story.


End file.
